


The One To Kill Me

by MercuryBlade



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: BDSM, Combat Play, F/M, Norse Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryBlade/pseuds/MercuryBlade
Summary: Níðhöggr slithers around his dying mind, its breath stinking of his corpse. It whispers, hissing like scales on stone….Every life you steal is a link in the chain that binds you to me.Every step a thousand years, a thousand links, all of them make you mine.--Eren dreams during the rumbling. They are not good dreams.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	The One To Kill Me

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot hold all this angst.

_Níðhöggr slithers around his dying mind, its breath stinking of his corpse. It whispers, hissing like scales on stone…._

**_Every life you steal is a link in the chain that binds you to me._ **

**_Every step a thousand years, a thousand links, all of them make you mine._ **

_At the moment of death, the mind slows. Life breaks apart into fragments, separate, connected, shards glittering in the dark. He slips through them in his shadowed prison: a mausoleum filed with his memories, hopes and dreams. If he has feet they make no sound._

_His innocent self rides the wave of destruction at its crest and revels in the great expanse of the world revealed: No enemies, no walls, no hatred. Just the endless clouds and sky, a terrible brilliance, serene but stuck in time like a leaf in amber._

_His empty self shuffles beside Ymir, hauling the iron and burning wood to charcoal for Brokkr, who forges the links in his chain without pause. Brokkr’s heavy hammer falls on on a smouldering workpiece; sparks burst and are quickly snuffed by the velvet dark. It is beautiful but his empty self has no word for beauty. Brokkr pounds the link closed and flicks the chain, letting it resettle in its dark heap. One link for each life stolen._

_He comes to his final self, the only self free to choose. This self was what Níðhöggr had promised him, as it snapped the trap shut._

_That self lives in a dream._

###

“What am I to you?” He asks her. Instead of waiting for her to respond, he’s able to read the blush on her cheeks, the sharp intake of breath—and break that ice inside himself. He kisses her and closes the space between them, drinking her in like a breath after diving, his heart hammering in his temples, her heart fluttering against his fingertips.

_There is a savage intimacy to fighting. He never could explain it in life, but violence was a way of knowing someone beyond the civilized masks people wore. To him there was no greater communion than sharing the primal struggle for life with another. He craved that connection, like a lion craves driving its claws into quivering flesh. That urge had shadowed him, pulling at his mind, seducing him. The fight with the slavers that had captured her was his first true taste of savagery and he had reveled in it._

_Now, enchained by Níðhöggr, he wondered if that was the serpent and not himself. Had Níðhöggr stolen who he was only to entrap him by holding it ransom?_

She starts to kiss him back and that threatens to drive him into a frenzy. He makes a bit of space between them, cowed by the intensity of his reaction. Before, only violence had swept him away to this degree. “I want to be with you.” He catches her hands in his, crouching a little to eye level—when had he grown taller?

Her eyes widen at the implication. She blushes, her lips parting. He finds himself riveted by the breath ghosting over her teeth and he tips her chin back, kissing her again. The kissing becomes biting, his bloodlust erupting inside him, filling him with a hot urgency. With effort he gentles himself and pulls back again, panting.

**_Níðhöggr laughed: do you think you will be kind?_ **

She has blood on her lips. Her eyes dark. Fear, he thinks.

“I didn’t want… No.” He shakes his head, “I’m sorry. Let’s go back to the others.” He turns, letting her hand go.

Her fingers clench around his. “Yes.”

He turns back.

She touches the scar at her cheek. The scar he’d given her. “Nothing you can do will frighten me away. I’ll do anything you want.”

He breathes out hard through his nose and grabs her upper arm, navigating them towards a different part of the Mid-East refugee camp; away from the boy they had rescued and his family. The refugees had set up hashish tents; one of their few sources of income was renting smoking rooms to Marleyans.

Far from the lights of the city, he finds what he’s looking for: An isolated tent by a cliff. The merchant at the entrance takes his money. He pays more than double the rate for an evening. “Leave. No matter what you hear, ignore it.”

The man leaves and he ushers her inside. She stares in confusion at the walls of the tent; they’re lined with rugs, riots of intricate colour. In the centre is a hashish pipe on a low circular table. He ignores it, stripping off his jacket and setting it on a low chest by the door. He pulls out his tie as well and she catches on, taking off her own jacket and hat.

He has the memories of dozens of adult men; he can clearly remember at least a hundred encounters. Some loving, many not. If he listens to their memories, he has no need for fear or hesitation.

She sits on her knees at the table, looking at the hashish pipe with curiosity.

“Do you want to try it?” He sits down beside her. That close, he can smell her; she has a soft roundedness to her scent, which is surprising considering how strong and violent she can be. He has to clench his hands into fists to still them.

She nods. He distracts himself with tipping hash into the pipe and lighting it. He brings it to her lips, catching her behind the head. “Inhale slowly. Hold it in for a bit.”

She follows his instructions, breathing in the thick smoke, then holding it. Then she coughs it out. He keeps the pipe at her lips and she takes a few more breaths of it. He set it back down. “Not too much.”

“Are you going to try some?” She asked.

“No. I have to be more careful than you.”

“Why?” She leans back on the heaped rugs, her face flushed and her body going liquid.

“Because you don’t heal like me.” He stands, holding out his hand. 

She giggles and takes it. He pulls her up.

He props his foot on the table, lifting his pant cuff and pulls his knife. “Unsheathe your knife.”

She lifts her skirt and pulls hers from its thigh sheath, looking at him with slow bemusement.

“I want you to fight me,” He says. His breathing is already fast. He takes a fighting stance, one hand forward, his knife hand back.

She looks at him in confusion. “I can’t—“

He lunges at her and, as he expects, she responds instinctively, sidestepping and capturing his knife arm. He brings his elbow down on the side of her face and she staggers back, nose bloodied. She wipes it away with her thumb, anger flashing through the haze of the drug.

“Fight me. Beat me.” He says. “That’s what I want. You can’t hurt me.” He comes at her again and this time she disarms him properly and blocks his attack, swiping back with the knife. It catches his chest, tearing through his shirt and carving a gash across his ribs. He closes his eyes, breathing hard as pain blooms through his chest. 

When he opens them, he rushes her, blocking her half-hearted knife thrust, stepping past her and sweeping her leg out from under her with a force that sends her to the ground hard enough to break her wind. She tries to sit up, struggling to draw breath and he drops down on her hips to pin her.

With her gasping to breathe and unable to move, he rips open her blouse and pulls her bra up. Freed, her breasts bounce with her heaving. He leans down, biting her nipple hard enough to draw blood. She finally catches her breath to scream and tries to buck her hips to get him off. “Do you want to stop?” He dares her to say yes. “You said anything.”

To his delight she responds by growling and trying to buck him off again, pushing at his hips and turning to the side to shrimp out. He lets up the pressure, letting her commit, then grabs her arm, and dismounts, catching a shoulder lock and then forcing her down, his chest against her back. She struggles against him, but he is better at hand-to-hand combat. He leans close to her ear. “I can do what I want now.”

He feels her shiver. He doesn’t know if it’s fear or excitement. Keeping the pressure on her arm, he pulls up her skirt, yanking down her panties. Her naked ass is in the air and she is dripping wet. “You stopped fighting,” He says. He slaps her ass, grinning at her. “I’m pretty sure you could fight harder than that.”

She whimpers.

“I shouldn’t have given you that drug, it makes you horny and slow.” Without taking pressure off the shoulder lock, he starts to glide his fingers through her folds. “But did you cut me pretty badly. If I wasn’t a shifter, I’d probably be unconscious now. That deserves a reward.”

He begins to finger fuck her until she closes her eyes, her breathing going fast again. He works her with the precision of unnatural experience and just as she’s biting her lip and starting to test his shoulder lock, he stops. She looks up at him, her pupils blown wide, her face flushed, mouth open, drooling.

He unbuckles his belt, pulls down his underwear and guides his cock to her hole. He pins her with another challenging look. I dare you to stop this. “This is going to hurt.” She screams when he enters her and after a few thrusts he feels hot liquid drip over his thighs. She’s bleeding. She grimaces in pain, her teeth bloodstained, eyes screwed tight. He doesn’t stop. The pressure building in him feels like a swarm of hornets, dangerous, unfocused. Distantly, he hears the slither of scales and laughter like the striking of flint against steel.

She starts to buck her hips back into his thrusts, trying to increase the depth of contact. The tension in her face has eased. Now blood tinted saliva spots the canvas floor of the tent as she drools helplessly, moaning. His blood has stained the remains of her tattered blouse, but the wound on his chest is already steaming closed, the pain fading.

The sight of her pleasure fascinates him. He wrenches harder on her pinned arm and she cries out in agony, and almost instantly, pushes herself even harder back against him. “You like pain?”

“Yes,” She says. She looks up at him, her eyes hazed with lust. “Like you.”

“Fight me again.” He lets the pressure up on her arm. She pulls it out of his grip with a wince, getting her hands under her chest and pushing herself up. She keeps her hips moving against him until he catches them, gripping her hard enough she can’t move, his fingernails tearing her skin.

She turns over, staring at him, panting hard. Then she launches herself at him, slamming his face with her elbow, sending his head snapping to the side. Pain slices through his jaw, leaving him with a blissful moment of complete blankness. He feels teeth dislodge and, staggering back, he spits out three. While he’s dazed, she tackles him, hooking out a foot and sending him tumbling to the ground with her on top—The same move he’d just used. She is heavy enough to feel like a threat, her hands pinning his shoulders, kneeling over his hips, but he laughs instead of fighting back. Finally she’d made him feel genuine submission. “Fuck me, please.” He begs.

She moves back, pressing her ass against his hard cock. She lifts her hips and he’s inside her again. The ache of his jaw mingles with the ache inside him as she moves herself against him. “What should I do?”

“Do what you want.” He says, squirming under her like a speared eel. “Finish me off.”

She grabs what’s left of his collar, driving her forearm over his throat. He chokes, barely able to draw a breath against the pressure. Her strength brings him to the brink of fear and he grabs her arm to pull it down, make space to breathe. Through all that, she hasn’t stopped the slow grind of her hips. Struggling against her, the painful weight on his neck, the slow greying of his sight, starts to make pain and pleasure bleed together inside him. His ears buzz as he feels his hips convulse upwards, seeking release in her. 

She falls over, breathing like a race horse. In the end she looks worse off than him, her face swollen, smeared with blood, bruises from his fingers on her wrists and hips. She moves to lay her head against his shoulder, hesitates…

He pulls her head against his chest and she settles there. He chuckles to himself. She’d hesitated less when he’d asked her to beat him. He strokes her hair and she makes soft sounds of contentment. He smiles sadly. His loyal dog. He wonders if she really enjoyed any of it or if she just did it because he asked.

Eventually she sleeps under his slow stroking, likely emotionally overwhelmed to the point of exhaustion. He grabs a blanket from a stack by the tent wall, pulling it over both of them, and gathers her up against himself. He’d always known there was something broken inside him, but lying there with her relaxed against his chest, he wishes that broken part gone. He wishes he could love her like the men in his memories had loved.

“I want to you to fight me for real.” He kisses her temple. “I want you to be the one who kills me.”

###

_In the mausoleum, Níðhöggr smiles. He can’t see it smile. He feels it, like chains pinching skin._   
  
**Do you think I would allow you to be kind? Do you think I would let you love anyone but me?**

**_Every life you steal is a link in the chain that binds you to me._ **

**_Every step a thousand years, a thousand links, all of them make you mine._ **

**_Do you think she can spare you even one?_ **

**_When she is ground to dust, her life spent saving yours will just become another link in your chain._ **


End file.
